


Its Own Beast

by jackotah



Series: Nothing Made Me [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Asperger's Sherlock, Autistic Sherlock, Cuddling, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Dreams, Erections, First Kiss, Fluff, He's getting pretty good at it, Insecure Sherlock, John Watson Takes Care of Sherlock Holmes, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, POV John Watson, that's pretty much the extent of it, they'll get there okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-07 01:38:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5438729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jackotah/pseuds/jackotah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He drew in a great shuddering breath as Sherlock nipped again at the pulse point of his neck, then kissed the spot as if in gentle apology. Sherlock paused briefly, as he had many times already, to observe John's reaction. His eyes were intense, interested, and John could practically see the intricate machine of his mind whirring away behind them, analysing, categorising, formulating a new experiment in light of recent data.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Its Own Beast

_Oh, christ, John thought, pressing against the back of Sherlock. Oh my fucking god.... His hips rolled, savoring every moment of contact between his cock and Sherlock's warm arse, the taste of Sherlock's skin, the smell of his hair...._

John's eyes shot open.

_Shit._

He held his breath, stilled his hips, which thankfully were moving a quite a bit slower in real life. Maybe if Sherlock was still asleep he could just pull away-

“It's fine, John.”

“Shit,” John cursed, flushing hard and pulling away. “I'm sorry. That- I didn't...”

“I said it's fine,” said Sherlock's muffled voice. He yawned, as if to punctuate his casual tone. “It was a dream.”

John squeezed his eyes shut, but even in the darkness of their room it wasn't dark enough. “I was humping you like a fucking dog.” Despite his embarrassment, his erection still throbbed and strained at his pants.

The duvet rustled as Sherlock turned toward him. “It wasn't unpleasant, if a bit surprising.”

John let out a little laugh. “Well, okay, that's... good I guess." He rubbed at his eyes. “This is all so backwards,” he said under his breath.

Sherlock's pale eyes were trained on him now, and he cocked his head into the pillow. “Is it something I did?”

John schooled his face to a serious one as his hand found Sherlock's under the duvet. “No. No. It's just... that we're sharing a bed and I've slept with you every night for a month and I've bawled my bloody eyes out on your shoulder. But I haven't even kissed you. I don't even know if you want to be kissed, and here I am rutting against you in my sleep.” He stopped himself and looked over at Sherlock, whose eyes now seem suspiciously calm. “I mean it's okay if you don't want to be kissed or... anything. I don't even know what we are, you know. To each other. Are we the same? Different? I don't know. I-”

A warm finger pressed gently against John's lips, silencing him.

Several things flickered across Sherlock's face: affection, curiosity, mild amusement. But his pupils were blown wide and dark, and at the sight the heat of arousal flooded through John again. The finger slipped away.

“Forgive me for doing this backwards,” Sherlock began, his eyes still fixed uncharacteristically on John's. “This isn't exactly my... area. But I do want to be kissed.”

John swallowed hard. 

Sherlock Holmes wanted to be _kissed_. By _him_ , presumably.

“Now?” As always, best to be clear.

Sherlock's gaze flicked down to John's lips. “If you like.”

John couldn't even count the number of first kisses he'd had. He was sure it was a perfectly reasonable number, perhaps slightly above average. He considered himself rather good at it, and it came naturally to him. No one had ever complained, and it had generally led to sex. But the prospect of this kiss- of kissing Sherlock Holmes- had his heart thumping so hard he wondered if Sherlock could hear it.

 _He probably can_ , John thought, trying to will his body to relax. Sherlock eyes peered at John through dark lashes, moving gently over John's face- analysing, surely. John's hand found Sherlock's chest, and he pressed his palm flat against it, smoothing it up to the soft skin of Sherlock's neck. Those pale eyes closed, and Sherlock drew in a deep breath. John took that moment to move in closer, the heat of Sherlock's body now tantalizingly close. Softly, John nuzzled at his clean shaven jaw, trying not to let his own stubble scrape the skin. Sherlock's eyes shot open, dark again with arousal, and they followed John's lips until they met his. 

It was soft at first, almost chaste. John's lips did most of the work until Sherlock finally moved his own, tentatively. _I can't have been the first to kiss him_ , John thought, bringing Sherlock's lower lip between his own and revelling in its taste. Sherlock sighed, feeling increasingly more alive. John could feel the man's hand drift up towards John's neck, wanting to touch, but instead it hovered there- close but not quite touching. Where he had been slow but steady in the past, he now balked, and the energy of his hovering hand ignited in John an overwhelming need for contact.

“It's alright,” John said to the corner of Sherlock's mouth. He kissed at it softly, pressed his forehead to Sherlock's, and then added, “You're allowed to touch me, you know. I want you to touch me.”

Sherlock did as asked, his warm hand nesting under John's jaw, his thumb stroking over the bone in what appeared to be awe. The hand slid back then, fingers carding through John's hair at the back of his head. And then at last it coaxed- gently, so gently John might have missed it entirely- and beckoned John's mouth forward again. With lips parted Sherlock rose up slightly to meet John in another kiss, and John lowered himself down so they were chest to chest. A positively delightful hum came from Sherlock then, and John had never felt so alive.

They kissed a while longer, still warm and sweet but with a growing intensity that wasn't quite under their control. John opened up the folds of his neck and arms and chest so that Sherlock could investigate them. Carefully, of course, and with a degree of vulnerability that John had never before seen from the man. It sent his heart into a tailspin to see it, to feel it, to receive it on his body. The small kisses, the nuzzle of his pointed nose, even a cautious scrape of teeth at one point, and John was falling- no- _drowning_. He was drinking it all in willingly.

He drew in a great shuddering breath as Sherlock nipped again at the pulse point of his neck, then kissed the spot as if in gentle apology. Sherlock paused briefly, as he had many times already, to observe John's reaction. His eyes were intense, interested, and John could practically see the intricate machine of his mind whirring away behind them, analysing, categorising, formulating a new experiment in light of recent data. John had never felt so thrilled to be the object of someone's attention. _This is what it's like to be with Sherlock Holmes_ , he thought. It wasn't cold, it wasn't distant or clinical. It was alive, its own beast; organic in every way and yet self aware, as soft _clicks_ and _dings_ and _whistles_ and _hums_ signaled new information, new discoveries. About _John_.

Sherlock's face was lit up with fascination, and he dove back into John, tucking his head under John's chin so he could suck on the collarbone he found there. John found himself arching forward, his thigh sliding between Sherlock's, his hands clutching Sherlock's sides as he hissed through his teeth. God, but he was coming completely undone. He ventured a roll of hips into Sherlock's, finding the other man hard as well, if not quite so desperately hard as John himself.

But as their erections brushed together, Sherlock's hips jerked back, his thighs squeezing John's leg in place as if not wanting to lose him but not wanting him to advance either.

John cupped the back of his head. “I'm sorry,” he said to Sherlock's curls. “I didn't mean...” He made to pull his leg away, but Sherlock clutched it tighter between his own.

“Don't leave.” The words were small, spoken into John's chest like an awful confession.

John clutched him tighter, still leaving ample room between their hips. “Course I'm not leaving. I just thought maybe you might... need a moment.”

“A moment, yes. Just- just like this.” So John counted the breaths. Fifty-four and then, “Maybe just...” Sherlock slowly rocked his hips forward into John's, just once, until they were flush and snug against each other. He was soft now, which didn't surprise John terribly as he was on his way there himself, and the contact was more comforting than arousing.

“Good?” John asked, giving himself numerous chins as he tried and failed to peek down at Sherlock's face.

“Yes. Is it... enough?”

John winced slightly at the phrasing. _Where in the devil had he gotten that idea?_ “Of course it is. Whatever you want, it's enough.”

The silence that followed was thick with unsaid words: _you are enough, you're all I want, whatever you want, whatever you need, that's what we'll do, nothing more, I promise, it's okay, it's all okay._

“We should have a lie-in," John said instead.

“I think we're already doing that, but I'll defer to your expertise.”

“It's half eight. But I mean a proper one. With snacks.”

Sherlock groaned, pressing his face into John's chest, and John was happy to see the confidence return. “Honestly, John, you are a slave to your baser urges.”

“There are still biscuits in the kitchen, you know.”

Sherlock considered this a moment. “Alright, but you have to get them.”

John laughed then. “As if there were any other option.” He thought a moment, then pressed a kissed into Sherlock's hair. “I'll be right back. Keep this spot warm for me, yeah?” He slipped away, careful to preserve the warmth beneath the duvet. 

When he returned with two cups of tea and a package of biscuits under his arm, Sherlock was spread out like a starfish under the duvet, face squashed into his pillow. But his slender hand poked out from beneath, and he gestured wordlessly to John, who hesitantly held out a teacup. Sherlock gave him a doubtful look, his eyebrow cocked, and John laughed, setting down the tea. He held out the biscuits instead, and Sherlock hoarded them away under the duvet.

“Save at least one for me, if it's not too much trouble,” John said, sliding back into the warm bed. “I did fetch them after all.” He propped himself up a bit with the pillow and took up his tea. 

There was a crinkle of plastic, and then Sherlock's hand deposited one biscuit on John's chest, considered, and then added a second. 

John chuckled, his breath making small waves on the surface of his tea. “So generous.”

Sherlock squinted his eyes, as if John had spoken in some foreign language he only half recognised. But at last his face softened, and he drew closer to John, placing a quick kiss on John's bicep before he began munching on the remaining biscuits. John's heart surged.

Eventually, he coaxed Sherlock into drinking his tea, and then made him brush the biscuit crumbs from the sheets before they found each others bodies again. Softer this time, slower, but new and sparking just the same. John kissed at Sherlock's brow, his nose, eventually his lips, but he kept it lazy and gradual. And Sherlock practically melted under his touch, loose and warm and heavy- and aroused, John noticed then. He hummed deeply, acknowledging the twitching erection against his thigh, but didn't seek it out, just let it grow and harden until it slipped free from under his leg, still straining against Sherlock's pants.

And so they held each other, skin sliding over soft skin, erections swelling and fading like the tide, lips teasing and giggling and murmuring. They were both a bit lost, it seemed, but perhaps not quite so far gone as they'd thought. Beyond the window the December sky opened, releasing fat snowflakes onto Baker Street. And the duvet shielded the two of them from the cold world outside.


End file.
